While I was staying in Los Angeles with Alex and Paul I was privileged to be present on Korey and James Johnson's first ever spanking shoot. James and Korey are a scene couple whom I have really enjoyed getting to know at spanking parties in the US over the last few years. They are married with a real life domestic discipline dynamic, in which James uses spanking and other forms of corporal punishment to correct Korey if she breaks an agreement they have made, or acts in a way that is detrimental to her own wellbeing.

Neither James nor Korey had ever appeared in a spanking video, although they both certainly have the looks for it. However they are both exhibitionists and scene players who have played a lot at spanking parties, and who both find the experience of playing in front of an audience to be very exciting. Although neither of them is interested in making spanking videos professionally, they decided that they would be interested in trying it together for the sake of the experience.

I got spanked today. D and I hadn't caught up on our discipline deal for three weeks. I argued, beforehand, that this was unfair and counted against me. If he doesn't find time to deal with my misdeeds each week, I proposed, then they should be cancelled out. There shouldn't be any rollover. It's unfair that I should have to take three weeks of punishment at once simply because he hasn't kept up.

He came and hugged me, smiling around the eyes. I pouted at him. He led me through to the bedroom.

You'll remember that I have an ongoing discipline deal with my boyfriends where they help me keep track of my health and fitness goals, and hold me accountable for failures to meet them. You might also have wondered why I haven't written about any punishments in a while. Well, I'm sorry to say that it's not because I've been turning in perfect records every week.

What actually happened was that after I got made homeless last September and moved in with D, the whole thing sort of gently collapsed. Tom wasn't in a position to keep up with things, so between the three of us we agreed that it made sense for D to take over. He was good enough to give me moving week off. Then we tried to pick it up again, but almost immediately I sprained my ankle. And then there was just one thing after another. The more it mounted up, the more reluctant either of us were to confront it. During periods when I was checking in, he was too busy or tired to initiate a big scene. And every week he didn't mention it, the less motivation I had to keep up with my side of the bargain.

During this time it was interesting to see how my habits changed. Despite not being actively engaged in the discipline arrangement, throughout these months D had a positive effect. He doesn't drink, so I pretty much stopped drinking unless I was going out. He also works out nearly every day, and I started going to the gym with him. But I barely did my daily physiotherapy exercises. Yoga, pilates and strength training helped keep my pain at bay, but D and I both knew that I'd need to start doing them if I wanted my condition to improve.

I've been working a lot on my site the last couple of weeks, and it's been a stressful time. Not preparing content; preparing content is an energising, happy-making experience. Instead I've been wrangling with the realities of finance, logistics, web development; contingency trees collapsing my timescales into unrealistically short deadlines. D, who is handling the site back-end for me, is only available to work on the project until mid September. I can't apply for a CCbill account - which we need before we can get to grips with the billing integration - until my site is ready to launch. Ergo, my site needs to be ready to launch by September. Never mind the complexities of finding the money to pay his mortgage while I'm taking him away from other paying work.

The feeling of urgency when I think about this project has been increasing by the month. Every time I contemplate how much work there is still to do it feels like a hand is squeezing my heart. Not panic: merely a sense of overwhelming certainty that this is what I need to be working on, not anyone else's website, not any client projects, this, now. My breath catches and my pulse quickens as every cell in my body urges me to drop everything and work on this, now, go go go. I have been patiently squeezing work on it into my evenings and weekends for too long. I know with every part of me that right now, this is where my time and energy should go.

One of the most popular tropes in spanking porn is the concept of the performer being consensually punished on camera for some real misdeed, and experiencing genuine feelings of remorse, catharsis and release in the process. Real Life Punishment, Dallas Spanks Hard and Strictly Spanking all focus exclusively on this sort of scenario. A lot of people want to believe that the scenario they're watching is, to some extent, psychologically "real".

Frustrated by not being able to run any other processes while editing video, I recently souped up my four year old Dell to a whopping 4GB of RAM - the maximum I can get without replacing the motherboard. It's much more capable of multitasking as a result, but file conversions and rendering still take bloody ages. I set the "Scrubbing a floor naked for 60 minutes" video I was putting together for my client rendering at about midday, and it's still going now. Admittedly that's an hour's film at DVD quality, but still. I need a new PC.

Since I'm not going to be able to sleep as long as my computer is whirring fit to take off, I may as well tell you about the spanking I got this evening. D and I left it far too long between dealing with my accumulated misdemeanours. It's been a horrendously busy month for me, so I've had little time for exercise; that, combined with snatched, tired time together meant that I'd built up a hefty score to settle. As he was doing the maths I groaned and asked if we could deal with some of it next time. I didn't expect him to go for it, but he did, and when I discovered that the total was over a hundred swats with the brush, I was relieved.

He let me go over his knee this time, and I was grateful - the physical contact made me less afraid, although it didn't really make it hurt less. I was due 42 this time for missed exercises, with 48 still to come; plus 12 for two missed check-ins. The 42 came in long, brisk sequences, more than six at a time, at least it felt like it; possibly in tens. Although I had the reassuring warmth of his thighs under my hips I didn't even get a rub inbetween sets, or a word from him, until we were most of the way through. I am developing a healthy fear of that brush, I can tell you; he doesn't even have to use it hard and it stings like hell.

I found myself experimenting with ways of processing the pain. Holding my breath. Clenching my teeth. Stuffing the duvet cover in my mouth. Kicking, yelling, cursing, hissing through my teeth. Taking deep breaths. Howling. Nothing helped me get through it except time and endurance, and then I was hanging limply over his lap, out of breath, amazed at the ability of that piece of wood to break through all my experience and enthusiasm to render me completely helpless.

The last twelve, for failing to make my daily check-in twice, were hard. I opted for the "yelling" approach this time.

Then it was over, and after a very welcome rub I got an affectionate smack, which my whole body responded to by going yes! That's more like it! That I can deal with! I communicated this to D, and got a lovely short, firm hand-spanking in return which, bizarrely, felt like balm to my blazing cheeks.

D reminded me that my health is more important than almost anything else, and when I'd conceded his point we settled into some serious cuddling. My arse was glowing hot with two hard round spots in the middle of each cheek. I huffed and exclaimed and took the piss out of myself for being such a wimp, and he tried to make me feel better:

"Whhhyyyyy did I sign up to this, I am so stupid."

"Because you're a good girl. And you want to be a better girl."

"STUPID."

I bemoaned the strange effect the brush had on me - it's so weird that I can take canings so readily and this just flips me out, I have no way of processing it calmly. "Actually," I said, half in jest, "I could do with a caning right now, that'd make me feel like less of a wuss."

"Well, there's one right here," he observed.

So I lay over a pillow on the bed and offered him my throbbing arse, and D took advantage of my already being warmed up to thrash me soundly with the 12mm dragon cane that had been standing by the bed.

I didn't count the strokes - 24? 30? My whole body welcomed the familiar, beloved sensation. I breathed into it, bathed in it, until I was awash with pleasure.

My discipline deal with D (how's that for an alliterative beginning?) has been revealing so far. To my surprise, I've pretty much kept within my drinking limits, apart from one week which included two birthday parties and two other boozy social occasions.¹ And my gym schedule has been easy to maintain, at least when I'm at home and not gallivanting around the country. But the daily physio exercises I'm meant to do to help my long-term back pain - day after day, despite my best efforts, I'm failing to find the time.

I tried doing them last thing before bed; but then by the time I've finished for the day, I'm flattened and just need my sleep. We haven't tried first thing in the morning yet as my morning routine is already longer than it should be, and I don't want half the day to disappear before I get down to work. I tried fitting them in as and when, but my schedule is already squeezed to bursting and I seem to never have a space of time when there isn't something urgent needing doing. D and I sat down and talked about it and agreed that a mid-afternoon break might work, since an excuse to get up from my desk and move around will help my back in any case. I have an alarm set for 15:00, but it always seems to go off when I'm in the middle of something super-important. My new idea is to set the snooze on it to half an hour, rather than five minutes, so chances are I'll have finished whatever I was busy with by the time it goes off again.

I'm encouraged by my success in the other areas, and determined to break the back of this one (as it were). In the meantime, however, my record is fairly shoddy. The last time D and I settled the account, I was due 48 whacks with the bathbrush for missed physio exercises; a bonus 6 for missing a number of days in a row; plus 12 for going a week without a booze-free day. Hardly a glowing report. We talked about ways I could try and do better, but I did feel genuinely disappointed with myself, and D, while gentle, was not exactly impressed.

So the tone was very different from our last punishment session. He asked me to undress completely, and as I lay on the bed I knew this wasn't going to be pleasant. D's manner was calm, but a little cold. The strokes for missed back exercises were so numerous that he didn't give them to me in sets of six, this time; just one extended application that did not care how much I wriggled or cried.

I did cry, before we were halfway through. The tears squeezed themselves out onto the pillow and it felt good to surrender to the pain, to our collective disappointment, the shared sense that this punishment was thoroughly deserved. The last six, bonus strokes for missing my back exercises too many days in a row, were hard, and if I hadn't cried I might have screamed.

But the worst came last: twelve hard whacks with the brush on my thighs. He delivered them with a clinical, even pace, starting at the top of one thigh and working down it for six, then back up the next. The pain was incredible. I gripped the rail at the head of the bed for dear life, willed my legs to stay still and not kick, and sobbed.

I felt better afterwards, though. Admittedly rather sorry for myself, but less burdened by the knowledge of my failure.

I'm sorry to say, however, that after all that the intervening weeks have been even busier, and my good intentions have continued to fail. I'm still not giving up - I want my health to improve, and I'm determined to find a way of making this system work for me. But the next accounting is likely to be another painful one.

1. I could perhaps blame Emma-Jane for the jugs of mojitos, but that would go against the spirit of spankee solidarity.²2. Which is, of course, Bacardi.

If I were to tell you that historically, punishment has not been something I've enjoyed, I'd appear to be stating the obvious. Of course no-one enjoys punishment, that's sort of the point. But even within the familiar paradox of kink, punishment has not been a framework that I've tended to find fun to play with. Hot, undeniably; but in the context of a real dominance and submission agreement, coupled with a hopelessly strong desire to please those I love, earning a punishment has never been a fun way to initiate play for me. It's been rare, and when it's happened it's been about genuine upsets or disappointment, it's been tearful and it's not been pleasant for either of us.

Of course that mode of punishment also has value: catharsis; the putting to bed of heartfelt remorse, relief from guilt; the raw intimacy that comes from undergoing such an ordeal together for the sake of maintaining good faith. The self-respect that can be earned by bravely facing the unpleasant but necessary consequences of regretted actions.

Until now it's only ever arisen in two contexts; the breaking of pre-negotiated agreements, or the resolution of relationship conflicts where I came to see myself as being in the wrong, and craved some sort of absolution before I could forgive myself and move on. Neither an experience I'm inclined to seek out.

Recently, this sort of "serious" punishment hasn't been a feature of either of my primary relationships. Tom's health problems are well chronicled, as is D's reticence about adopting the more ceremonial aspects of D/s.

So the deal I've made with D this year has been an interesting experiment. My first punishment under our new agreement took place in a highly sexually charged context, and wasn't, to my surprise, the edgiest aspect of our play that day. Since then, at my instigation, we've expanded our agreement so that he's helping me keep track of more than just my drinking levels. I'm currently trying to improve my health and fitness more generally, and regular exercise is part of that, as well as the exercises I've been given by my physiotherapist to address my particular back problems. So as well as booze, I'm now reporting in on two additional counts: if I do my back exercises every day, and if I visit the gym three times a week.

Of course, as soon as he agreed to help me keep track of these extra factors, I immediately came down with a filthy cold, so I had a temporary reprieve until I was better. I was still not at all well the last time I visited D, which led to the punishment for the two missed days of back exercises before I got ill being postponed. Then once I recovered, I was working all hours of the day trying to make up for lost time on various client projects, I'd got out of the habit, and finding half an hour a day to do back exercises was not top of my priority list.

When we came to deal with things yesterday, then, I had quite a lot accumulated. One missed daily report. Six missed days of back exercises. To my relief, it turned out that I'd been doing really well with drinking moderately (thanks in part to the cold!) and I hadn't missed any gym sessions - but still. He'd already told me it would be six whacks with the bath brush for every missed day of exercises. Plus twelve for the missed report, adding up to a colossal 48.

So you'd think that I'd be a mess of nerves, leading up to it. But to my surprise, when he mentioned that he was packing the brush, when I saw it waiting for me on the pillow in the morning, when he came up behind me at my desk and softly kissed the back of my neck to give me my 15 minute warning, I didn't feel anxious, or upset. My primary emotion was one of reassurance, of security.

I felt loved, knowing that he cared enough to put energy into keeping his side of the bargain, even though it's not his normal style. My fear of the brush translated into a thrill of arousal. I knew I wasn't going to get shouted at. I knew I wasn't going to have personally disappointed him. The goalposts were set by me, and the only person I was letting down was myself. And I - well, I was doing my best, and working out this deal with D and accepting my punishment was part of that endeavour. There was no point feeling guilty about it. Half an hour of exercises every day is a tough habit to get into straightaway. I knew I wasn't going to manage it straight off. I'd done worse than I hoped, but there weren't going to be any recriminations or hard feelings. Just a quick punishment to deal with past 'failures', and the chance to do better next time. It felt honest, and straightforward, and strangely liberating.

When I reached a stopping point in my work, I joined him on the bed. He let me look at the spreadsheet and we discussed how I'd done. He was impressed with me for going to the gym while I was still ill; and my drinking had been lighter than my stated aims. But the back exercises were a problem. We talked about ways to help me get into the habit. Setting a time each day, and an alarm on my phone. It feels strange to stop working when I'm being productive, but I should justify it by thinking of the break itself as a health benefit; the consequences of doing computer work all day will be lessened if I get up and move around regularly. They only take half an hour, less time than the washing up, less time than a bath, less time than it takes to tidy my room or go to the shop.

After a little while I realised I was using the talk to put off the inevitable. Our eyes met. He stood up and held out his hands, and I joined him. A kiss, and then his eyes scanned me, and with a quirk of his lips he said quietly "Take off all your clothes, I think."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

I did. Then I lay down, as instructed, over pillows on the bed, and he told me that I'd be counting these in sets; not each stroke, but each misdeed, starting with the missed report.

I felt so safe in his hands, so reassured by his gentle manner, that I forgot how much that damn brush hurts. It doesn't seem to have much weight to it but every stroke is a targeted, stinging punch and I am incapable of thinking while it's going on. It just gets to me, pure and simple. The pain is startling, shocking; even when I know it's coming it takes me aback.

Tom was in the next room, so I tried to be quiet. I hissed, I took deep breaths, I yelled silently into the pillows, I grabbed fistfuls of duvet, and when one set of six landed hard and fast I couldn't do anything except twist and howl and involuntarily clench both buttocks and try to flinch away. In between he stroked my back with a tender hand, and I gasped and thanked him and gritted my teeth for the next.

Then it was over; and as I cuddled up to him I realised that I hadn't cried, hadn't had the catharsis experience I usually associate with punishment. This was less distressing and less complex than that. On one level it was wholeheartedly, straightforwardly consensual. This whole thing was my idea. D wasn't being domineering, making me do things I didn't want to do; he was my team-mate, my equal partner, working with me to help me achieve my aims. On another, my crime was not emotionally distressing; a minor blip in my striving for self-improvement, but I hadn't hurt anyone and had no reason to be overwhelmed by remorse or regret. This punishment was a tool in my arsenal; it was part of the plan. It wasn't anything to feel bad about. And I didn't feel bad. I felt relieved, satisfied, loved, reassured, safe.

And - oh, my treacherous cunt - actually really turned on.

It turned out I wasn't the only one. Of course, snuggling up to him, naked and trying to rub the persistent itchy sting out of my bottom, it was easy to get distracted. More kisses didn't help. When my hand brushed against the hot bulge in his jeans I asked "Is that from kissing me or spanking my bottom?"

He smiled. "Yes."

His hand, exploring in due course, discovered what I'd suspected - that all my protestations of being a good girl who hates being punished were belied my by body's reactions. I was slippery wet. "My cunt and I disagree on the question of the bath brush. It thinks it's hot."

He told me to put on black and white stripy stockings, and spanked me again just because he could, making me kneel with my arse stuck right out so there was no padding to bounce under his palm, just taut skin. He smacked the backs of my thighs, too, and at various points my breasts. Our enthusiasm was mutual, and our lovemaking an excruciatingly pleasurable mix of tenderness and violence.

I can't help feeling that there's something wrong with this positive feedback loop; that if we have so much fun every time I'm punished, won't it be self-defeating? I do genuinely want it to help me improve. But those objections are theoretical. Deep down, I'm not conflicted at all; my satisfaction is too self-evident to argue with. Yes, I'll try to earn less punishment next time. If I get some, I'll take it and it'll bring us closer together. If I don't, he'll probably find an excuse to beat me anyway. Or perhaps I'll just keep raising my goals to stay slightly ahead of my progress, so I'll always fall slightly short of them - all in the name of self improvement, of course. It's all good.

(I'll leave you with one final image: me, just after D had put his jeans back on and returned to his work, doing my back exercises on the floor in knickers and a t-shirt, bottom still glowing from my recent spanking and the carpet feeling very rough where I was tender. The whole thing probably helped me loosen up, but if I'm going to used that method regularly I'm going to need to get a yoga mat.)